


Acidosis

by ashadowonthewall



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Closeted, Drabble, F/F, Love/Hate, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashadowonthewall/pseuds/ashadowonthewall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What can I say? This ficlet was written back when series 5 first started. And since then, my opinions on both characters - and the ship - has changed, considerably. But I figured some people might still want to read this. The story is told from Mini's POV. Unbeta'd so any mistakes are mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acidosis

You hate her.

_How dare she come to your party without being invited?_

_How dare she walk into your life and try and steal your friends away from you?_

As you down another glass, the realization hits you then like the burning in your stomach. You hate her because you’re afraid; you hate her because you feel threatened. You despised her from the moment you saw her take Grace and Liv by the hand, the three of them laughing and dancing in the middle of the shopping mall while the music played.

You walked away because you couldn’t stand the sight of it. Seeing two of your best friends loosen up in front of hundreds of people. 

You’ve never been able to make Grace or Liv smile like that. They’re afraid of you; to them you’re a leader, someone who takes power an iron rod. You know that when they smile at you it’s only fake, you know you can’t really make them happy. But Franky did and that’s why you hate her.

Once you’re back at home after the party, you feel the urge to scream or punch something when you walk back into your room. The photographs of Franky being tormented and humiliated come back to you and your head and stomach burn then.

Rushing into the bathroom you hold your head over the bowl and throw up everything you’ve drunk and eaten, it’s not the first time. The familiar burn in your throat comes back and your eyes fill with tears, just like they’ve done many a time before when you’ve overeaten. 

You hate her even more for calling you out on it then – what you do to yourself –when she gave you back the dress. Like she could see through you or something. That was why you got Nick to put those photographs of her on the wall for everyone to see. It’s one of the things he’s good for, doing things for you.

The two of you have been dating for ages but you don’t feel a thing when he kisses you. When you’re making out with him and he groans a little in your mouth when you pull away, a rotten feeling builds up in the pit of your stomach, making you feel nauseous and you feel terrible because you don’t want to blame him. He’s a good-looking guy, charming, a football player, he takes you out places and buys you things; everything a girl could ever want. But you haven’t had sex with him, and not a single part of you feels like it wants to. You feel nothing when he touches you, when he wraps his arms around your waist and kisses you hard and passionate. 

But from the moment you met Franky, everything felt different. You hated the way your heart skipped a beat when you first saw her crashing into those bikes, you hated the way your pussy clenched when you saw her undressing in the locker rooms, catching a glimpse of her underwear – _boy’s_ underwear – which is why you made fun of her the way you did. 

It was the only way you could protect yourself, it’s how you’ve always protected yourself, by lying, by being a complete and utter bitch. Yet somehow a part of you feels a deep sense of regret when you see Franky hurting, that part of you wants to reach out and touch her, and you know you can’t let it show. You’d kill yourself before that happens, which is why you hurt her the way you do. 

And as you lie there on the tiled floor, wiping your mouth and eyes the image of Franky is still in your mind, her skin, her hair, her face, the rush you felt when you pushed it down into the mud. A burning sensation builds up in the pit of your stomach but not the kind that makes you want to throw up, and you slide your fingers down your skirt, through the elastic of your knickers, running circles around your clit to the image of that freak, and you hate how wet it makes you, because you know you’ve never felt that way about Nick.

You come in just under a few seconds, your face flushed and your knees weak, the smell of vomit in the tub filling your nose. And as you wipe your hand against the hem of your skirt, the last thought that goes through your mind is that you _fucking_ hate Franky Fitzgerald.


End file.
